Friday, January 27, 2012

How I feel about cooking.

Last weekend, I roasted a chicken. It was good. And it was special. You see, I never roast chickens. Then Lu and I made soup. Her favorite thing ever is the matzo ball soup at our local diner. If you order the cup, you get a giant matzo ball with a little bit of broth. If you order the bowl, you get the same giant matzo ball with more broth. We order the cup because we're smart like that. The broth is not the star.


I told Lu recently that we could probably make our own matzo ball soup. Then she asked me about it every day for many days until I set a definite date for matzo ball soup making. We decided to give it a try last Sunday. It was chilly outside and Jon was leaving again for the UK. I know it's been hard on her with him gone and I thought this would be a fine distraction. It would also be a respectful nod to my suspected Jewish heritage. Our family is positive for the BRCA2 (breast cancer gene) and it's most prevalent among European Jews. If we had to inherit something from a mystery line of ancestors, why not a cave full of gold or an empire somewhere tropical?!


We made the balls extra big and then they expanded like crazy while cooking. It never occurred to me that this would/could happen. Monday morning, I had to cut one in fourths to fit in Lu's lunch thermos. It might have been eighths. I hacked the heck out of it.


A weekend of cooking filled the house with wonderful smells and made me feel all homey and warm. But I am confessing right here, right now, that I am not comfortable in the kitchen. The roasted chicken was a pain in the ass to pry off the bone and those mega matzo balls were too mega. Here, Lu puts on a brave face, but is actually quite scared.
They say the 40's are about accepting who you are. And who you aren't. I'm not a good cook. Recipes bore me and going off the grid is too intimidating. The whole grocery store outing that an impressive meal requires is the worst of all. And the precise timing of every step to make it all come together in a grand triumph of tastiness is not a talent I possess.


I attempted to enjoy cooking in my 20's. I was a rookie, so my fumbling seemed precious. I feigned interest in my 30's. "Look at me chopping fresh herbs and hosting book club!" Less than a year into my 40's, and the gig is up. I'm calling it. I saw lightening, everyone out of the pool! I'm taking my (mega matzo) ball and going home.


Plenty of people love to cook. There are about ten million blogs about creating healthy and delicious meals for your family. I appreciate them. I sometimes read them. I never emulate them. I trust my basic line-up of decent dinners to get us through the week and then we wing it on the weekend. Turns out Edy can have pizza for six consecutive meals and continue a healthy growth pattern!


My mom was a reliable cook. Not at all interesting and pretty bland. But that was standard stuff for the time. Our family rarely ate out – just a fancy restaurant dinner to celebrate the tax return. (Fancy for our family of six still involved a salad bar and cut-your-own crusty bread.) My mom made a lot of meatloaf, chicken and rice dishes, pork chops and spaghetti. On the side, we almost always had iceberg lettuce with homemade Russian dressing.


I have her recipe cards and I love them! First, because she is obviously the source of my obsessively neat handwriting. Second, because so many of the recipes are retro gems. Lots of jello molds with cottage cheese, pimento loaf and seafood casseroles. YUM-MAY! And finally, because I totally picture her in "the kitchen of Joyce MacMurray" deciding what to feed her family or preparing to entertain with her harvest gold appliances.
So I'm not a good cook. But I am good at other things. Like picking clothes off the floor with my toes and putting together a spectacular 10 year old birthday celebration. Behold Lu's Amazing Race Party! 
If this week's blog is lacking, blame the fact that I came up with catchy rhymes to direct four teams of four girls to five different countries before racing home to a basement full of balloons. The party is tomorrow so wish me – I mean, the girls – luck. Hopefully this sort of thing will fill my daughters with fond memories, since filling them with creative meals is simply not happening.

For your question, I was going to ask "What is your favorite meal to cook?" But, if you're like me, you don't truly enjoy cooking anything. So instead, How do you feel about cooking?

Friday, January 20, 2012

A do-gooder, but not a do-greater.

Helping other people. Some say it's the reason we're put on earth and that our final judgment, when it comes, is based on how well we served our fellow man.


I'm in trouble.


Truthfully, I do okay. But not great. I could do more. That's the case with most people. Except maybe nuns caring for colonies of lepers and Martin Luther King, Jr., who's birthday is now commemorated with an official day of service. That must gain serious bonus points in heaven. Someday my birthday will be commemorated with a day of complaining about unimportant things and between meal snacking.


This week's question: What is your history of giving back and what do you currently do to serve your community?


As a small kid, I was quick to participate in all those jump rope-a-thons and "Please pledge me a penny per page!" read-a-thons mostly because I'm crazy competitive. It wasn't out of a desire to help.


My parents were teachers serving high schoolers in a tough area. They definitely set a positive example. They were also active in our church where they probably did a lot of good things I don't know about. I do recall caroling to shut-ins (I sang for the cookies) and aiding a family of refugees from Laos. We went on multiple occasions to their tiny apartment above a store. Honestly, I thought their digs were cool with the bare white walls, mix-and-match furniture and exotic smell. When you're that young, anything different holds hypnotic allure.


I started to show a hint of compassion in middle school when my friends and I decided to sponsor a girl from Africa. For me, seventh grade meant blueberry Bubblicious, off-the-shoulder neon mesh tops, jazz shoes, perms and Agnes Nazara from Zimbabwe. Save the Children launched a pretty aggressive ad campaign that ran nonstop during my favorite tv shows (HeMan?!) and eventually wore me down. I recruited some fellow awkward, neon-loving pre-teens to pledge $16/month and soon received a packet with a picture of a grinning Agnes wearing a sweater. (They wear sweaters in Africa?) We were all about our goodness, so very engrossed in our charitable ways, until we weren't. Like the blueberry Bubblicious with its three minutes of flavor. My parents took over payment at some point and then I guess we gave her up.


After my mom died, and before pink ribbons were plastered on everything, our family did a bunch of breast cancer fundraising. Of course, when you are connected to a cause, when it has severely impacted your life, there is passion and a higher level of commitment. (Sorry, Agnes.)


Out of college, I edited the church newsletter, packed lunches for a local shelter and organized the holiday adopt-a-family at work. I went with my boss to deliver the giant pile of gifts to a Baltimore City row home situated smack in the middle of an otherwise abandoned block. While the naive me found charm in the Laotian's cheery walk-up, as a young adult I knew there was no charm for miles. Though probable gunfire. It made me uncomfortable and I'm not proud of that.


When I started freelancing out of my home, there were times I was busy, and there were plenty of times I was not. One day I saw a giant banner outside of a home for the very old and infirmed (truly, really old) that read: "Love is ageless." I called that day and offered to volunteer. Soon I was conducting Monday's "exercise and activity" class. They were so sweet, even if they rarely remembered me week to week. When I was pregnant, they threw me an interesting shower and when Lu was born, "activities and exercise" became "baby love hour." The residents would form a circle of wheelchairs and bedchairs and Lu would play in the center while they "oohed" and "aahed" and sometimes fell asleep. I convinced friends and their babies to come along, too. Once you got past the smell of boiled broccoli and bowel movements, it was really quite special.


In 2004, Gail became involved with the Sandy Rollman Ovarian Cancer Foundation, an incredible organization that offers support for survivors and their families as well as awareness campaigns and fundraising for research. She walked in their first 5K. After Gail passed away, I went to the very next meeting they held for volunteers. I cried my way through it, but I felt compelled to take over where she had left off. Today, Jon serves on the Board and the whole extended family helps with the annual 5K which has grown from less than 100 participants to over 2,000!


Gail and Nicole at the Sandy Rollman Ovarian Cancer Foundation's 5K 
Spring 2006

I also volunteer at Lu and Edy's elementary school amongst a ton of type A moms. It's fine. I like being present for my children and offering up my limited talents where needed. But I will only dip a toe or two in that pool of politics. It scares me. More than the ghetto.


* * I must give credit to my sister, Gwyn, who helped me recall the refugees' country of origin and confirmed that they lived above a business near the former Kiddie City in Willow Grove. (Maybe that's why I liked it so much!)



Friday, January 13, 2012

Living large with teeny tiny closets.

"Your home will explode."


That was the title of the email I received from the heating/air conditioning company we've contracted to prevent such disaster. Not "your home may explode" or "how to keep your home from exploding." "Your home WILL explode." It certainly got my attention so I clicked the link to read further. The takeaway? If you smell gas, run! Like really fast. Maybe blow out your cranberry kitchen candle first. The one you lit because the scent of Taco Tuesday lingers well into Thursday.


In my former, less glamorous life, I was an advertising copywriter. It was when Melrose Place was all the rage and you were nothing without a miniskirt business suit. I admit, I had a predictable writing style. Call me the queen of catchy, cute headlines. Rhymes and alliterations were my weapons of choice. Here's how I would have written that email –


Don't be seen in smithereens!
What will your neighbors think 
when your house is a hole?


Raising the roof isn't always a party.
No dj. No dance floor. No survivors!


Beware! 
The housing BOOM that will net you a nightmare.


With my house in my head, this week I decided to list the things I love about where we live. I'm staying positive, so no mention of our desperate need for additional closet space or the fact that I nearly freeze to death every day because "old house" and "drafty" are forever linked for all eternity even with new windows that cost a tremendous fortune. Only good stuff, because truly I am blessed.


1.) Location. I could say it three times with three exclamation points, but that would be Trite! Trite! Trite! We live in a fantastic and safe community with incredible schools and awesome neighbors. We can walk everywhere – the train station, the post office, library, convenience store, multiple coffee spots/cafes, the movie theater, a farmer's market, Edy's hip hop dance studio (true dat!), a few spas, lots of happenin' restaurants, an old-timey men's shoe store that Jon adores, a few old-timey men's barbers, a bike shop where we've acquired a plethora of pink cycles in all sizes (including my 40th birthday present, Pepto), even a car wash, though why would you walk to a car wash? It's an easy stroll to the printer who prints my books, the graphic artists who originally designed them and the UPS store when I have a shipment. In the not-so-distant past, we could even walk to Chili's for family-friendly fare and bucket-sized margaritas, but it exploded. (Well, it burned down.)


2.) Age. I love our old house with its solid craftsmanship and character. I love the knowledge that other families existed in this very same space. And now that I'm obsessed with Downton Abbey, I imagine really well-dressed people from the early 20th Century hanging out in my living room and talking about the Great War. It makes me happy. (Not the war part.) I feel more secure surrounded by thick plaster walls and big old trees that have shaded generations.


3.) Sweetness factor. Good thing I have girls. I think the decor of my house could be labeled charming and comfortable, and maybe cottagey. I love color. My dining room is painted "koi," as in the fish, as in orange. I like to pile pillows and blankets on the beds, especially this time of year. Oprah says, (yes, I'm quoting her again. It's like a tic.) "Your home should rise up to greet you!" I feel that way. I'm stuck here all day most days, so I'm ever so grateful to have a beautiful place to chill. I mean, to unload the dishwasher, vacuum giant dust/dog hair balls, wipe sticky hands and stinky butts, and reload the dishwasher.


On a side note, my sister Gail walked through our house before we bought it. She was very sick... and very bald, but it was a warm spring and she wore it well. She loved old houses, too, and made me promise to host Christmas so she could sit in a chair next to the fireplace. She didn't live to see fall, but I kept my promise at Christmas and hosted (crammed in) the entire family, with an empty chair left by the fire.


Your turn! 
List three things you love about where you live.


A couple shots of my house for fun!
 Cottagey, right?
 "Whoever said orange was the new pink was seriously disturbed."
 Lu's room
 Lu's window seat
 Edy's room
Bea's room
"Sit down and stay a while. Oh, you're leaving? Bye!"

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Terrific Ten

My beautiful and very sweet daughter is 10 today.


After four days (that's right, four!) of a less than pleasant condition called prodromal labor, Lydia Frances "Lu" was born via c-section on a snowy winter's eve. I will now share the story I've told about 1,000 times, but have never written down.


Lu was due on New Year's Day, which is so annoying when you're the wife of an accountant.


"Better have your baby by December 31st for the tax deduction," said every other person I ran into every day. Yes, as my body bloats more and more, as I consider the unknowns of childbirth for the first time, as I contemplate raising a human being from a desperately needy, flailing infant to a complex adult, what I am really anticipating is that tax deduction!


Of course, December 31st came and went. No baby. Then late on January 3rd, I went into labor. We waited until morning to go to the hospital. I was determined to be a super warrior laboring goddess in the comfort of my own home before seeking medical assistance. I brought my pillow! Saw the doctor! But was quickly sent home. All those contractions and I hadn't dilated. 


Many hours later, we headed back to the hospital because I was sure now the baby was ready to slip 'n slide right out. Pillow under arm! Still contracting like a champ! Stubborn cervix hadn't changed. Sent home with Ambien. I had a fitful sleep that night and, as witnessed by Jon, sat up in pain every few minutes without waking. Freaky. 


Back to the hospital in the AM with my trusty pillow. One centimeter dilated. They could tell I was exhausted and offered something to help. (So glad I avoided every kind of medication for nine months, didn't have a sip of alcohol and curbed my caffeine, just to be given a deluge of drugs at the finish line.) Didn't work. I dreamt of colorful marching bands while scratching my nose uncontrollably. Apparently narcotics are not for me! Good to know. The psychedelic effects eventually wore off and, you'll love this, they sent me home.


The next day I grabbed that damn pillow and went back to the hospital where they finally admitted me. I got the epidural and relaxed. About ten more hours later I was still barely dilated – meaning my baby was toasty warm inside and didn't want to budge. The doctor offered a c-section before her shift was up and I jumped at the chance. (Except for I couldn't jump because I was full-o-baby.) 


They started prepping me while Jon watched the Eagles game. I began to panic a little. I'd never had any kind of surgery or stitches. And now I was about to be sliced wide open.


They took me to the operating room. The dad is brought in after the first incision is made. I was a mess. So much anticipation and fear for yourself and your baby and your life about to change forever. They finally led in Jon. He sat down on the little chair next to me. Such relief to have him close. He leaned over. I prepared for comforting words of love and support.


"The Eagles just kicked a field goal," he whispered.


And that is how Lu came into this world! Now she's ten. Crazy.


Telling your first child's birth story is not the writing cue for this week. You can if you want, but this blog is for everyone and not everyone is a mom.


But, everyone was once 10!


So in honor of my daughter's big double digit day – Describe yourself at 10.


I was a little pudgy. My bright blond hair was starting to darken. I loved preppy clothes, hand-woven friendship barrettes, my Urban Chipmunk album (Chipmunks sing country!), ABBA, stuffed animals and sticker collecting. In the summer, I was wet 98% of the day and would lay like a lizard on the concrete in order to get warm. I survived on Bottle Caps, Sugar Babies and Freeze Pops. 
I liked to watch He Man cartoons, Little House on the Prairie and Creature Double Feature on Sundays after church. I had Holly Hobbie wallpaper and a canopy bed. I was always writing or drawing something. My 4th grade class was "the bomb-diggity." It was my best year of elementary school by far. (Though I wasn't organized??)
As I recall, our class was very silly and everyone liked everyone. My best friend's name was Joby. (And still is!) I loved my brother even though he called me "Wretchin'" and/or "Grendel." It was the last year all four G's lived under one roof. Gwyn was a senior in high school, Gail was a sophomore and Geoff was in 6th grade. Innocence and security ruled. I had never lost anyone close to me. Life was grand. Ten was terrific!